HOOT

(Wade concertina, 1886)


The old man
Pushes buttons
To play music.
Tourists passing
Donate to his hat, while
He sits
Bald
To the elements.
The songs are
Traditional, so old
That no one knows
Their authors
Anymore, telling stories
Of a life no one alive
Remembers. His low voice
Cracks like paint.

Passersby usually assume
That he’s gone blind,
But he just keeps his lids
Closed tight, so he can look
Back
Farther than the eye can see.


-- © 2010 by Jack Veasey

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